


as stories go

by Cloudnine101



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Hellenistic Religion & Lore
Genre: Angst, Books, F/M, Friendship, Imagination, M/M, Romance, Teenage Rebellion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 02:44:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3633732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudnine101/pseuds/Cloudnine101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Persephone is a Problem Child.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	as stories go

Persephone is a Problem Child. She has always been aware of this - at least, she can't remember a time when she wasn't. When told to stand still, she runs; when chained to a school desk, she takes the books, and watches them burn, standing over pooling ink. It is in her nature; the fibre of her very being.

Her mother is there, of course; smiling and soft and willing. Persephone hates her, without ever knowing why; hates her on instinct, on principal. It niggles, in the centre of her chest: you lied, you lied, _you lied._ Demeter has not lied, of course. She hasn't even come close. That doesn't stop Persephone from noticing - seeing the sadness in her mother's eyes, as she steps away, shoulders rising through the fabric of her shirt.

Fight. _Fight._

So, she cuts her hair, and she tears her clothes, and calls herself Seph; she rips pages from spines, and borrows lighters, cool to the touch. The written word is power - and that is what she wants, before it is stolen from her. Something is coming. Something improbable, something impossible, something that will change her - on a basic, fundamental level, rending her limb from limb, twisting every vein and vessel. Something that will make her _better_.

 _It will come,_ the voice whispers, as she lies awake at night, watching the stars sway on the ceiling. _It will come._

Seph reads, and shuns her fellow men, and pours herself drinks, and doesn't finish them, and reads again. The people churn inside her skull - and she wants more, and more and more, until she bursts. She steals out of the house, when the sun is high in the sky, and frost sparkles alongside dew, and pops a pin into the local bookstore's lock.

Legends fly inside her, slamming against her ribs - but the screaming doesn't stop, and they only yell louder, until she can barely think.

_Let me out. Let me out. Let me out._

With frenetic energy, Seph turns pages; soaks in stories. Monsters chase her, to the furthest corners of the Earth; kisses are exchanged, hurried between battles, mingled with blood and spit and sulphur; nymphs scatter among close-cut trees, as a chariot rises up, dark and licked with fumes. She has never felt like this, before.

The beanbags become indented, with the pressure of her form. The owners recognise her; wave, as she passes by. She knows the path by heart - knows it so well, she could walk it blindfolded, trainers smacking against the pavement. Sometimes, if she closes her eyes, it seems as though dirt moves beneath her, mingling with waves.

Cupid and Pysche, Jupiter and Juno, Patroclus and Achilles; not a romance evades her, not a tear escapes her. Greek and Roman alike, she cannot hold them in; they burn into her brain. There were spaces pre-prepared for them; these friends of her, with the sunlight glinting off their polished blades, sitting around her.

Achilles glows, as does the sun; Patroclus nurses his wounds, shadow-eyed and solitary. They wrap their hands around her wrists, and hold her close - and, when she is not there, they hold one another, caressing and tender. Persephone watches, and says nothing. Perhaps it is for the best, that they should be left alone - but then they look to her, and call out, and she knows she cannot resist. She has never had friends, like this.

_It will come. Let me out. It will come._

There is one tome, however, that Seph never touches. It sits on a high shelf, out of her reach - and it calls out, humming _danger, danger, I know you. I know you. I know-_

The season is almost summer, now.

That morning, Demeter tells her goodbye. It is a rare occurrence. Ordinarily, Seph would never allow it - but Persephone weakens, and raises her chin, and gives in. _I love you_ , Demeter says. _I'm sorry._ Persephone has no reply. She chokes, and swallows, and turns her back. It is the best she can do.

_I am coming. I am coming. I am-_

The others lead the way - one to a hand, they step alongside her. Patroclus's gait is measured; Achilles strides, heat exuding from him. He is too bright to watch. Patroclus's bronze face is streaked with coal, and ashes. As they part, Persephone kisses his cheek.

When the car pulls up outside the school gates, long and black and sleek, she doesn't pause. The seats are upholstered in leather; the door is easy to open, giving way beneath her touch. It smells of air-freshening, and drying paint, and must. 

As the vehicle pulls away, engine roaring with the heat of it, the man meets her gaze. He is tall, and dark, and gaunt. Emerging from his top pocket, among the creases of his suit, half-crumpled, is a library card.

Persephone smiles. She doesn't blink once.


End file.
